King's Last Hope: The Complete Durlindrath Trilogy

by Robert Ryan

  A moment thus it stood, ready to strike. Aranloth waited, and then the creature dropped the mighty blade to the battlement.

  There was no noise, no clang, no rattle of metal against stone. The sword ceased to exist the moment the creature let it go.

  And then the beast turned and looked behind it. Gilhain watched, rooted to the spot by fear or fascination. Which, he did not know, but he watched.

  The devil shape tensed, and the face of the creature showed surprise. Suddenly, it seemed more human. It wavered, great folds of shadow billowing about it as its dark wings trembled, and then it was gone, gone in the blink of an eye as though it had never even existed.

  The onrush of elugs faltered. Many had gained the wall because it was unmanned, yet most had held back, just as scared of the devil as were the defenders. No one seemed to know what was happening.

  But now men began to come back to their positions, and there was great turmoil in the host below. A light flashed, sharp and bright. Then there were more and more flares and bursts of power. On it went, and it seemed that the world stood still. Only the storm moved, venting its fury, but the two opposing armies seemed paralyzed.

  Finally, a burning light, too bright to watch, pierced the rain-thick air, and screams rose up from far below, full of pain and anguish beyond any cry that Gilhain had ever heard. Then a boom rolled across the battlefield as though the earth itself cracked asunder.

  The enemy host suddenly moved. At first, everything below seemed a mad panic, but quickly it became evident that the horde was breaking up, scattering, taking flight.

  “What’s happening?” Gilhain asked.

  Aranloth seemed tense, and his eyes were distant. But then he answered.

  “More than we could hope. But when you trust in such as Brand, hope is rarely cheated.”

  “Brand?”

  “Aye. Brand. He has come, returning to us over the long leagues of Alithoras, and there are others with him. And they attacked the heart of the enemy, the head of the snake as he would call it.”

  “The elùgroths?”

  “Verily. And rejoice if you can, for death is a bitter thing to all, to evil as much as to good, but they are dead. All of them, including Khamdar. That is why the enemy flees.”

  Gilhain thought. But not for long. There would be time to rejoice later. For now, he must act. Swiftly he issued orders for the regular cavalry to leave the city and harry the enemy, lest they regroup.

  “Tell them to harass the elugs,” he instructed the messenger. “Kill them. Give them no peace. Find their supply wagons, or what is left of them, and target them wherever possible.”

  And then the king watched and waited from atop the Cardurleth. The enemy retreated, and the riders of Cardoroth pursued.

  A small group was left in the middle of the field, and suddenly Aranloth’s voice rang out.

  “Brand is wounded!” the lòhren yelled.

  Before those words were finished it seemed that Arell was already moving.

  Gilhain did not know what to feel. Somehow, beyond hope, they had won. But at what cost?

  Aurellin slipped her hand into his. He bowed his head, and gently squeezed her. She squeezed his hand back.

  “Cardoroth will endure,” he whispered.

  But Aranloth heard him also, and it was the lòhren who answered.

  “And yet the shadow is not vanquished. Only its long arm is injured.”

  The truth of those words struck home to Gilhain. They had won a great battle, but the war was only beginning. It would be fought in other times and places. No doubt, it would be fought here again, even if in another fashion. But his time as king was drawing to an end. Another must soon bear the burden, for he was growing too old to continue as he had done. His time in Alithoras was nearly spent, but there was another to take his place. Another, who was prepared to give his life for all that he loved, if he had not already done so.

  29. Can You Deny Her?

  Arell knew what she was doing. She had no lack of confidence, no lack of skill, yet still she worried about Brand.

  The dagger of the elùgroth had gone deep. The blade had slipped between his ribs. That in itself was unusual, for the ribcage was good at protecting the vital organs of the body; that was one of its purposes. But the blade had apparently not penetrated far enough to touch his heart or damage his lungs.

  So far so good. But why was he so ill? She looked up from her ministrations and saw Aranloth and several others had come down from the battlement, but it was the lòhren who was most important just now.

  “Do the elùgroths use poison on their daggers?” she asked.

  The lòhren shook his head. “That’s unlikely. They have no aversion to such a thing, but they have better means of protection at their disposal.”

  That was good news. But then another thought occurred to her.

  “What about sorcery?”

  Aranloth frowned. “That’s certainly possible,” he said. He peered closely at the dagger for a moment, and then knelt down. Tentatively, he reached forward and brushed his fingers against the hilt that protruded from Brand’s chest. He did not grasp it though, and Arell saw him flinch as his skin touched it.

  Several moments passed, and Arell held her breath. At length, the lòhren stood.

  “There is elùgai infused into the blade, but it is not of a kind that would hurt Brand. The spells woven about it are of sharpness and seeking. They are potent, but they would have only helped the blade bite deeper. We can be thankful that whoever through it had poor aim, otherwise it would have found what it sought.”

  “And what was that?” Gilhain asked.

  Arell answered, thinking aloud more than anything else.

  “The heart, no doubt. And it was close too, but Brand’s luck has always been good.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Aranloth confirmed. Though whether he was talking about the dagger or Brand’s luck, Arell was not sure. Perhaps both.

  “Then I think I know what the trouble is,” she said. “He’s exhausted. Exhausted to the point of death, as only a man with the will of Brand can drive themselves. And the dagger, though not the main problem, could well push him over the edge.”

  “What then is the treatment?” the king asked.

  “I’d like to get him back into the city where I can do things properly, but he may not survive that long. So, I’ll draw the dagger out here. If he survives that, then his body can start to heal, and then he may regain some strength.”

  “Do as you must, Arell,” the king said. “I have confidence in you.”

  Arell did not answer. She had spoken in matter of fact tones. It was her job to do so, for it gave confidence to those who watched the treatment. But most of all, it brought to the fore that part of her mind that analyzed and assessed, that diagnosed and initiated treatment, and by concentrating on that it kept the other part of her mind that felt and feared, suppressed. And just as well, for if her emotions got loose on her she would fall to pieces. She could not let Brand die!

  Swiftly she made her preparations, dabbing an unguent around the wound that would help protect against infection. She prepared cloth, in case of bleeding, and then she put both her hands to the hilt of the dagger. She must be steady here.

  She took a deep breath, and then she gradually let it out, withdrawing the dagger very slowly at the same time.

  Brand moaned as the blade began to move. She gave a curt nod, and several sets of hands immediately pressed down upon him to keep him still so that he could not hurt himself.

  The blade slipped free, but it was not easy. Wounds were often like that; extra blood and tense muscles put pressure on blades that made it so.

  The dagger was a wicked looking thing, and it dripped with Brand’s blood. Swiftly she put it down and inspected the wound.

  She could see little, and had no way to know if there was dirt or other foreign material in there. If she had time and leisure, she would have considered trying to clean it, but that had its own d
angers, because no matter how careful a healer was, there was always the chance of introducing foreign material that had not been there before. Often, whatever caused infections was so small that it could not even be seen.

  Arell resorted to what had often worked well for her in the past. She drenched the wound with a special fluid. She gave her clients a long-sounding name for it, but the king and the Durlin knew it was merely a kind of potent spirit brewed by those who had no taste for wine or beer. Many healers would use wine for such a purpose, but she had found that the spirit gave better results. Barok, one of her great enemies in the profession berated her for this, claiming it broke tradition. She did not care about tradition though, she always sought the best results.

  When she was done she applied a poultice. This also helped to fight infection, but its main purpose was to promote quicker healing and the drawing together of the edges of the wound.

  If there was no sign of infection in several days, she would consider stitching it together. But if she did that too early, then it was possible that puss could build up inside, and that made infections worse.

  She applied a bandage over the poultice, and then she was done. Brand would live or die now by his own will, by the natural strength of his body.

  Those who had held him down were two girls. For the first time Arell allowed herself the chance to look around. One was an ash-blond woman, fierce and keen-eyed. The other … the other must have been one of the immortals, a Halathrin. And she seemed as sweet as a summer’s day, though there was steel in her also.

  Brand had kept strange company outside of the city, and much had evidently happened to him. The Halathrin did not venture beyond their forest realm, at least not these days, and there must be quite a story to this. But one thing about the two girls was the same, and she felt a pang of jealousy: they each felt for Brand. Their worry and their fear for him were palpable things. It was something that Arell had often seen when treating patients – the frightened concern of those who loved them.

  Whatever jealousy Arell felt, she suppressed it. It was not her way, and it would do no good. Besides, it was clear that Brand had touched their hearts in some way, and she could not hold that against them. Had he not done the same to her?

  Nevertheless, the three of them eyed each other off. But it was the fierce looking one, the one with the shadow of past pain in her eyes, that surprised her by speaking.

  “I’m Kareste, and you must be Arell. Brand has told me of you.”

  “I’m sure he has.”

  There was a flicker of a smile on Kareste’s face. “He said you were a great healer, and I believe him. He will not die, of that I’m certain. You won’t let him. But, I won’t be here when he wakes up. Tell him,” she paused, “tell him that I said goodbye. Tell him that I’ve much to think about and consider. And tell him this also. I’ll be back. One day I’ll appear again, unexpectedly, just as I did when we first met.”

  She looked fierce for a moment, and there truly was a shadow in her eyes, but it was more than past pain.

  Arell nodded. This girl obviously had many issues to work through.

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Arell stood, and the two of them exchanged a stiff curtsey. Kareste was ready to leave, but her glance fell on Aranloth and she paused. A long time they looked at each other.

  The lòhren bowed to her. It was a thing that Arell had not seen him do even for the king.

  “Well have you chosen,” he said when he straightened.

  She smiled at him, and her face changed completely.

  “Good was my guide, and good was he who sent him to my aid. For did you not know that we would meet?”

  Aranloth shrugged. “Perhaps. I hoped. But nothing is certain.”

  She bowed and started to walk away, but not toward the city. Then she turned to face the lòhren again.

  “Brand will live. The healer-girl will care for him, and she will see to it. Thank him for me.”

  “I will. And when you’re ready, return to Lòrenta. Your staff is there, and it would be better in your hands than lying unused in a dusty chamber.”

  She looked at him and smiled again. It was a happy smile, but a sad smile too.

  “I’m not sure the other lòhrens are ready for me.”

  “All the more reason to return.”

  Her smile flashed fiercely, and then she turned and left.

  The days passed, and they were long. But the nights were longer, for the pain grew worse. Yet, day by day, night by night, under the steady ministrations of Arell, Brand grew stronger.

  Within a week he was walking around and receiving visitors. There were many of those, and the catching up with old friends and the exchange of news and the storytelling of recent events filled many hours.

  He missed Kareste, but he understood that she needed time alone. He missed Harly also, for once he was on the mend she had come to say goodbye.

  “This city is no place for me,” she had said. “I yearn for the wild lands, the lands of forest and grass, and the stars up above at night.”

  He understood that as well. He understood it better than most, for he was like her.

  “Don’t forget me,” she said.

  “Never,” he answered.

  “Nor will I let you, for I suspect we shall meet again.”

  “Really? Halathar is far away. It may be that even my wandering feet never reach there.”

  “Perhaps not. But my feet wander also. And one day, when you leave this place of stone, this swirling storm of hustle and bustle behind, look for me in the quiet wilderness.”

  “I will always look for you,” he said. And then she and the remnant of her band were gone.

  The king came to see him, and he shook his head and laughed at the fate of the diamond.

  “Perhaps you were never meant to be wealthy.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m rich in other ways.”

  Gilhain nodded sagely at that, and then he returned the knife, the knife of his ancestors marked with the sign of Halathgar, that he had given to Brand once before when this had all begun.

  “I will keep it, this time.”

  Taingern and Shorty came to see him also. One was quiet and reserved, the other rowdy and jovial. But whatever their manner, he felt their love. But even Shorty grew subdued when they spoke of the Durlin who had died protecting the king since Brand had left the city.

  All the while Arell kept a close eye on him, and when he grew tired she chased the two visitors away in quick order. Shorty, however, winked at him slyly before he went through the doorway.

  The days passed, and Brand grew stronger. He was well enough to return to his own room, even to resume duty as the Durlindrath again. But Arell did not allow either, and he did not argue.

  Yet, one bright morning when the sun shone and the sky was clear, he felt restless. And he knew the cause of it.

  He took up Aranloth’s staff and diadem, that Arell had stored in a closet, and went looking for the lòhren.

  Aranloth was not hard to find, and after speaking to several soldiers Brand tracked him down. He was atop the battlement, where he was said these days to spend much time gazing out at the empty space where the enemy had once camped below.

  “Ah,” the lòhren said without turning. “The day has come at last, Brand.”

  Brand stood beside him and looked out at the view. The ground was ripped and pockmarked. In places, the earth was scorched. Yet green shoots were rising up from the trampled earth, and in the distance the pinewoods around Lake Alithorin were so green as to appear almost black.

  Brand leaned the staff against the stone and put down the diadem.

  “Why not tell me that you knew?”

  Aranloth turned to look at him. “You know the answer to that.”

  Brand let out a long sigh and nodded.

  The lòhren looked him steadily in the eye. “In the staff, that long I have born, since before the fall of the Letharn empire, there is only the memory of enchantment. The
diadem, however, is different. If you better knew its history, you would better understand its virtue.”

  “So, what now?” Brand asked.

  Aranloth turned his gaze back out to the empty countryside.

  “You feel the call of the land, do you not? And in her voice are the dreams and hopes of all who would live in Alithoras, of all who would not succumb to the shadow of the south. Can you deny her?”

  Brand shook his head.

  “The land knows you well,” Aranloth said. “The land from which you came, to which you will one day return. No servitude is it to serve her. She lays no bonds upon you. Yet bonds there are, for you lay them upon yourself. Do you accept this?”

  Brand looked at the land below. Alithoras stretched out all around him, and though he could only see this small bit of it, he felt the rest.

  “I will serve,” he answered. “I will become a lòhren.”

  Aranloth did not answer, and after a moment Brand spoke again. This time, his voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, and the words he chanted were ones that he had long held dear.

  Tum del conar – El dar tum.

  Death or infamy – I choose death.

  “I had thought,” he added, “that those words only applied to serving the king. But they hold true for other things as well. They hold true for serving the whole land, and not just a part of it. They hold true for serving, and protecting, all who live in it.”

  Aranloth seemed surprised. “Yes,” he said eventually. “They’re fitting words for a lòhren as much as for a Durlin. More fitting than you could ever guess. For though you have no way of knowing this, they were uttered long ago, long before the Durlin existed, long before the Camar came east. Once, they were spoken in the very halls from whence you brought forth the second half of Shurilgar’s staff, and the sound of them was like a death-knell to an entire empire.”

  Aranloth looked out over the battlement, but Brand knew the lòhren’s eyes saw nothing. His mind was on some event, some recollection of so long ago, so world-shattering in its way that even its distant memory moved him in a manner that Brand could not understand.